


Singled Out

by CodenamePhantom



Category: Godzilla (2014), Godzilla - All Media Types
Genre: Are there even any Godzilla fans on here?, Bet you didn't expect birds in a Godzilla fanfic!, Birds of Prey - freeform, Dreams and Nightmares, Empathy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm a Godzilla fanatic!, Mind Meld, My OC has a very crowded head, Mystery, Or would it be flock family?, Pack Family, Slight Suspense, Supernatural Bonds, Telepathy, There are birds in here!, This is my try at writing a Godzilla fic!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-01 06:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12150180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodenamePhantom/pseuds/CodenamePhantom
Summary: Senna Swialan lived a normal life - well... normal for her at least - then on an especially sunny day she's shot in the chest. Like most people shot in a vital region she dies... for a minute and thirty-six seconds.In death she reaches out, desperate to live, but knowing she is beyond saving. Only something... something reaches back, grabs her and thrusts her back into life.Now she is alive and everything goes back to normal... except it doesn't, not fully. Because she is being watched... and by night she is relentlessly hunted in her dreams by... something. Something that isn't human.





	1. It Begins

2014 had been a quiet, academically productive year… until October twenty-second.

For her it marked the day (and the resulting incident) that had left her clinically dead for a minute and thirty-six seconds. The culprit? A greedy, overly impatient bus hijacker with a stolen Beretta and one ugly bullet.

**BANG!**

She would never forget the image of that slim, black barrel pointing in her direction.

**BANG!**

The impact of something so small… yet so incredibly deadly lodging itself between her ribs, puncturing her left lung; the crippling shock afterward… followed by a pain so intense that it ripped through her entire being, stealing away her breath, stealing away her life.

Well… _almost._

**BANG!**

Could it have been avoided?

Maybe.

_Maybe_ if she wasn’t what she was, a…

Maybe…

But she _was_ a… (shush!) and it _had_ happened and even now she didn’t regret saving that little boy’s life – _Cody, his name was Cody… She remembered his mother screaming it when that cold, steel muzzle leveled itself against a cherubic, terrified face_ – because if four-year old Cody had taken that bullet he would have died and no field medic with their tourniquets and pressure bandages would’ve been able to save him.

**BANG!**

Her actions hadn’t been planned at all. Every move she’d made had been instant and unconscious.

_Instinctual._

**BANG!**

When she was on the mend – after a long, arduous hospital stay – people began to ask if she remembered anything from when she was dead.

She never answered. What she did do was remove herself as quickly and politely as possible from that person’s company and never look back.

But if she were to ever answer that question… she would’ve said, “Nothing.”

It would’ve made her a liar...

**BANG!**

The small minority she now belonged to of people who’ve died and come back always remember seeing a white light or a deep blackness, or describe the experience as floating in water or space, a weightlessness; like drifting aimlessly in a void of nothingness. And silent. Dying was _always_ silent. Noiseless. Soundless.

But not her.

Not her almost-death.

**BANG!**

Most remember the pain or the cause of their pain; the reason they were sent knocking on Deaths door. What made her near-death memorable wasn’t the memory of that black pistol firing, nor the mind-rending agony that came after. No, it was the noise, the screaming of those on the bus.

The terrified scream that had choked in her throat as she went down.

The screams of her fellow captives…  She remembered them echoing around her, bouncing and warping as she bled out, lost consciousness. The sound of their terror seemed to follow her down into that… cold place… where the collective cry of horror changed inexplicably into something else.

It wasn’t normal, she knew. No one in the support group ever talked about hearing things when they died. Never explained how cold they remembered feeling (because it was common, accepted knowledge that when you died you felt absolutely nothing) or how blue their eerie surroundings were, it was always black and white, floating or weightless. And silent. Always. Silent. Silentsilentsilentsilent!

So what was she supposed to think when the din of hysterical screaming morphed into an ear-splitting, thunderous roar of unspeakable rage?

Her thoughts on that particularly terrifying sound of utter fury varied from _it wasn’t human_ to _maybe it was Cerberus snarling at her?_ Or _it could be Ladon warning me off his apples…_

Though her mind always seemed to circle back to the glaring fact that **_it wasn’t human._**

Something _other_ had made that sound, expressed a wrath so profound that it left her soul shaken, her instincts crying out to run, to submit, to hide, to curl up, to lay down, to bare her throat…

The experience, the memory, even just thinking back on it froze her veins over with ice, her hindbrain seizing with a strange, unfathomable fear.

Safe to say she _never_ spoke a word about that inhuman, bone-chilling roar… Not to anyone, not the support group, not the doctor, not even her grandmother, Saoirse.

It was something she would take to the grave and dearly hoped to forget before then.

Six days after the bus hijacking on October twenty-seventh, she awoke from a heavily medicated sleep in a hospital bed, every available space dominated by get well cards, get well bears, and flowers – mostly from people she didn’t know (she blamed the news for that one).

Regardless, she deeply appreciated each and every offering of sympathy.

But what she appreciated even more was the sense of calm normality the hospital exuded on a daily basis, that aura of tranquil monotony that usually bored the healthy to death—to her it was a balm, too bad it didn’t last long.

When she finally settled down to sleep after wishing her grandma a safe trip home – visiting hours ended at 7:30 in the evening – the dreams came, unbidden, unnerving, and unending.

Come morning on the twenty-eighth she would be an exhausted, petrified mess, wide, glassy eyes darting for escape routes and hiding places. The doctors called it trauma or PTSD.

Only she never dreamed about the bus hijacking… Never woke up screaming in the night because she saw that cold, black pistol pointing at her a second time.

No, her dreams were never that tangible. She never saw anything when she slept, it was all sensation, feelings and shadows and glimpses, and that made it terrifying.

Because it was more frightening when you couldn’t see what was hunting you in the dark.

And she was being hunted…  Since October twenty-seventh every night, without fail, when she finally succumbed to slumber the dream would start and the feelings would come.

The feeling of being watched by predatory eyes.

The feeling of being stalked by something monstrous.

The feeling of being hunted…

By something that you could never outrun.

Maybe… just maybe if she wasn’t a…

No. She mustn’t think like that, mustn’t put the blame on her… bonds…

None of them were apex predators, after all; and none of her bonds would _do_ this to her, night after night, because she _knew_ them intrinsically like they _knew_ her. Could feel them, sense them—their presences, their auras shining like beacons in her mind’s eye.

So if they weren’t hunting her… watching her… stalking her… than who or what was?


	2. Camouflage (Don’t let it see you!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC's!

 

_The eerily still blue plane, like the bottom of an untouched pond, stretches out in all directions as far as the eye can see. There is no safety, no shelter in sight; there is nothing but an unending indigo horizon everywhere she looks._

_Still she keeps running._

_Because she is prey even though she is human—the most intelligent animal on the planet._

_Time doesn’t seem to matter here but her exhaustion is real enough to tell her that she is on her last leg— the cloying layer of sweat on her skin thickening with every hurried stride, every labored inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale._

_The stitch in her side begs her to stop, to rest, to breathe. But she is prey, worse, she is out in the open without a place to hide – exposed, vulnerable. A moving target._

_And she knew, instinctively, intuitively, that something prowled in the distance, predatory instinct alerted to her presence just as she was to its. Now all she needed was cover, someplace to hide away from it until she couldn’t feel its sharp, primal presence at all._

_She had to keep running. There is no other option; her instincts demanded it._

_If she didn’t – if she stopped – the carnivorous specter would see her, then… then… the shadows would come…_

_Cunning and relentless, they always gave chase, always tried reaching out, swiping at her as she ran, panicked and desperate, to escape._

_Up till now she has managed by the skin of her blunt teeth to elude the predacious pursuer; she doesn’t understand how, doesn’t know how either, she only knows what her instincts tell her and they tell her to run every time it comes close to spotting her (sometimes it sneaks up on her like an ambush predator and her instincts just scream **dangerdangerdanger!** )_

_The paralyzing cold makes everything worse; running, breathing, thinking, the cold always threatens to strip what little security she has away from her._

_The cold makes her easy prey, makes it easy for that terrifying shade to approach her without her knowing, because in the cold it is hard to run, to move, to keep moving and that is exactly what it wants (what she thinks it wants, a wispy voice amends.)_

_She starts feeling the fear when she’s been cold for too long._

_If it is cold for too long… it means… the shadows are close, very close, too close._

_Too close…_

_Too cold…_

_Too…  The abrupt cry of her instincts reverberates through her, startling her, shocking her into a standstill, knees quivering, muscles twitching erratically. Her heart palpitates._

_Her mouth drops open, a strangled gasp slithering past her lips. Distracted, she has been distracted! Distracted prey is caught prey!_

_RUN!_

_RUNRUNRUNRUN **RUNRUN!!!!!!!!**_

_She bolts, screaming, squealing like a frightened farm animal, eyes wide and rolling in their sockets. Oh God, she can feel it – the shadows – looming like some mythical beast behind her, hungry and persistent in its pursuit of her. How had it gotten so close?_

_Had it been stalking her the entire time she’d been here? Stalking her from a distance, waiting – always waiting – for the opportunity to move within range, to pounce and claim—_

_Oh **God!**_

_She can sense it (brushing against her mind, searching for a way in, grasping and…). Gaining, always gaining, now that it knew she was there (how she escaped time and time again seemed an impossibility now). Its predatory presence felt so overwhelming; not human, as far from human as something could get, and intelligent, so very intelligent, a sharp intent anchored deep inside… reaching outward, reaching… for her…_

_She immediately dodges to the side with a cry of effort, legs pumping frantically in the blistering cold. Instinct urges her to run faster, but the frigid air has done its work well._

_Frozen muscles, aching and trembling beneath her skin, struggle to move in the way she wants them to; escape that should be quick and seamless is now torture._

_Can she escape? Is it even possible with it so close? The shadows grasping-reaching-lunging for her in her peripherals. She can’t stop the doubt that hisses and cackles in her ears._

_Gods, she’s not going to—_

_Something stabs into her mind, the sensation like teeth and claws through flesh. She opens her mouth to scream._

_She wakes up._

 

* * *

 

“… Sleeping in my class, Miss Swialan?”

Professor David Sneddon’s voice carried across the lecture hall to the drowsy, hazel-eyed young woman seated at the back. Struck by hypnopompic sleep paralysis or, perhaps, just frozen by a familiar sense of post-waking terror, the pretty brunette kept her head down as she tried to regulate her shallow, panicked breathing.

Twenty-nine pairs of eyes turned to her, to her pallid face and trembling shoulders, her slender white fingers clutching the edge of the desk desperately (in a bid to ground herself in reality).

Then twenty-nine pairs of eyes turned back to the professor, who shifted his portly form behind the projector in agitation, a scowl contorting his rotund features in an unsightly fashion. His scathing demeanor went hand-in-hand with his ugly, off-putting appearance—his only redeeming quality being that he was an avid animal behaviorist, but in that moment he was bitterly severe, proverbial teeth bared at the one student who always seemed to fall asleep in his class, who always seemed oddly preoccupied, her eyes distant and turned inward…

The audacity!

“ _Ahem_.” A soft, insistent nudge to the shoulder spring-boarded the woman’s attention outward. With a gasp she slanted wide, bruised eyes at the attractive man sitting next to her. His smiled gently and flicked his gaze to the front of the room, at the professor.

She followed his gaze slowly, looking up into a pair of angry, beady brown eyes, and flinched, nails scratching against the desk as she jolted, throat swallowing audibly.

“I expect an answer, Miss Swialan. That is, if you can keep your eyes open long enough to join the class.” His voice was arctic, it reminded her of the cold— the cold blue plane and the predatory, prowling presence…

She whimpered quietly, the picture of a wounded animal trapped in a corner, with hunched shoulders and wide, frozen eyes.

The other college students shifted in their seats, disquieted by the tension, and stole furtive glances at one another. Their expressions varied from _who crapped in his cornflakes this morning?_ To _just leave the poor girl alone already, Christ!_

But they said nothing; they knew Professor Sneddon’s reputation among the student body, knew he was overly traditional and harder on the ‘weaker gender’ as he put it, the sexist jackass.

The young woman opened her mouth as if to say something but closed it, lips pursed and tremulous, staring into that narrowed brown gaze, her own eyes glassy and dazed like a frightened deer.

“Are you even awake?” he mocked her.

A blonde-haired woman seated in the first row tried to stifle a laugh, smothering it with a raised, perfectly manicured hand rather unsuccessfully. All eyes swung back to stare at the frightened deer, whose skin looked ashen as she ducked her head, fleeing the professor’s shrewd, angry stare.

“Since Miss Swialan seems to be sleeping with her eyes open, perhaps someone else would like to answer my first question?”

The prim blonde at the front immediately raised her arm. She made a show of gathering her thoughts – head tilting _just so!_ – before beaming as she answered his question in great detail, making an even bigger show of herself by gesticulating with her hands as she skillfully referenced Konrad Lorenz and his observations involving animal aggression.

When she finished her answer, she threw an acidic smile over her shoulder, then proceeded to sit back and preen as the professor praised her for her thoroughly correct response.

With one last frown directed at the pale-faced young woman - whose petite form still quaked subtly –  the professor turned back to the projector to continue his lesson on the encephalization quotient formula.

The frightened deer sniffled quietly as she scrubbed the wetness from her eyes—the stubborn part of her refusing to cry, to show even more weakness.

_Don’t._

The young woman smiled dimly at the strong, protective presence entwined around her psyche. The others, also sensing her distress, were quick to follow, closing ranks around her mind and offering reassurances to their frazzled, frightened Bound.

_Thank you_ , she thought softly, as they meticulously swept through her head, filtering away the fear and the cold, and the memory of being hunted...

Though, unfortunately, the headache – the strange pressure in her skull – remained, and she knew from experience that no medicine would help it ebb. Over the past few months she had learned to live with it… much to the displeasure of her flock.

_Threat_ , one shrieked shrilly in response. The rest of her bonds cried out in swift, aggravated agreement. The young woman sighed.

_Not now, please. I need to focus._

The angry cacophony of screeches, chirps, and shrieks instantly quieted down to a background hum – a pleasant sensation that felt like feathers against her brain; a soft, comforting sound that wasn’t really a sound, yet could still be heard.

Her imperceptible smile widened slightly, a touch of gratitude at its edges. Her bonds…

They were her support; just like she was theirs.

She needed them and they… they had come to need her as well.

They were bonded together; a family, a flock, their minds braided into one collective unit, one whole with several individual interlocking pieces that fit seamlessly together like an intricate puzzle. A mutual symbiotic relationship between species and she was the centerpiece.

The young woman schooled her breathing and, making sure the professor remained focused on the projector, closed her eyes, letting her mind mesh with her flock, grounding herself in their cool thoughts, their straight-forward logic; the intimate connection anchored her firmly in reality, in the here and now.

When she next opened her eyes the young woman felt refreshed and safe in her own skin, in her own head, all remnants of the dream shoved aside, a protective wall of raptors guarding her against the shadows.

_Safe. You are safe_ , one of her bonds trilled serenely. Another chirruped, mental tone ripe with possessive reassurance. _Ours. One of us. One **with** us._

“ _Thank you…_ ” she whispered in a breathy, inaudible voice.

Secure in the knowledge that she was indeed safe the pretty brunette turned her attention to the front of the class, green-hazel eyes clear and studious. Calm.

A few minutes later, as professor Sneddon lectured about metacognition in animals, a small piece of ripped notebook paper appeared on top of the young woman’s ethological psychology textbook. She failed to notice it because of a certain hum (a sound-sensation only she could hear-feel) that drowned out all distraction, but once again, a quiet _ahem_ drew her gaze (and her intense focus) away from the professor.

She blinked owlishly at the man seated beside her. He smiled wider this time, an affable air about him, and glanced at the paper on her desk. The pretty brunette saw it and blinked again, confusion and curiosity stirring in her eyes.

Carefully watching the professor as he droned on and on about Tinbergen's four questions on the projector, she reached out a slender hand and slid the piece of paper closer to her and peered down to read…

‘ _Sneddon’s a dick on Mondays._ ’

She smiled at the elegant curving script done in blue ink; not enough to show teeth or dimples, but it was a smile nonetheless. Small and genuine.

The young woman raised her amused green gaze to the man next to her and looked at him shyly from under her lashes. In response, a wide, mischievous grin spread across his face.

For a brief moment they shared a look of mutual mirth over the note before turning to face the board again. The rest of the lecture from then on passed smoothly, marked by the sound of mechanical pencils scribbling on paper.

 

* * *

 

_A metal door opened and then closed hurriedly._

_“Sir?” A professional voice called out a second later._

_“Yes? What is it, Captain?”_

_“Reports just came in, sir…” The marine paused, and seemed to exude a baffled (nervous) air, though his stoic features never wavered. “They say **he’s** moving again.”_

_“Again? Where!?”_

_“Off the coast of Australia, sir, near Melbourne.”_

_A tense silence. A pensive pause._

_“This is beyond the U.S Navy…” The sound of rustling clothing; a sigh. Then: “Get Monarch on the line; Serizawa and Graham need to be made aware of this pronto!”_

_“Yessir!”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start calling this my insomnia story, because I only seem to write it when it's three or four in the morning and I'm sleep deprived. I can't write it during the day like a normal person, the mood won't hit. The words and plot are beyond me when it's day; maybe I got bit by a vampiric plot bunny this time, so I can only write during the night. Lol!
> 
> That said, please read and review. I'm honestly curious to see what people say about my odd insomnia inspired story.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a Godzilla story! I've been a loyal fan since I've been five; thank you dad for introducing my highly impressionable mind to the glory that is the King of the Monsters! I'm pretty sure that if I wasn't made of sterner stuff watching Godzilla 1954 probably would've traumatized my young self for life. Lol! That said, I hope you enjoyed this... piece of randomly written literature that I wrote in a bout of insomnia...


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